


Round Two

by Lafayette1777



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Basically: Poe is bad with feelings, M/M, Three and one kind of thing, Who am I, anyways this is garbage and so am I, because Poe!, but there's also angst!, it's fluffy, spoilers obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 04:45:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5525858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafayette1777/pseuds/Lafayette1777
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Three near misses, and one head-on collision.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Round Two

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself I wasn't gonna do this but DAMMIT THEY'RE SO CUTE TOGETHER

I.

 

Poe, admittedly, does not contemplate luck very often. But if he were to contemplate his own, on a day like this, it would probably appall him. 

Unlucky to be captured. Lucky not to be killed immediately. Unlucky to be interrogated. Unlucky to bend to such interrogation. And, then, most notably: completely, unbelievably lucky to be broken out by a stormtrooper, of all things, with a number for a name. 

Poe Dameron has always been one for extremes. 

And so something almost snaps in him when the storm trooper pulls off his helmet and there’s actual, breathing person beneath it. A human among the inhuman, with nervous dark eyes and a levity to him that shines through even the haze of panic surrounding their situation. He’s gorgeous. 

For a moment there, Poe has to physically impede himself from kissing FN-2187 until they’re both breathless. 

The second passes, though, because he knows better, and there’s a ship to be stolen and an escape to be made. But then there’s the question of a name - and _Finn_ seems to cement things. Even as they spiral downwards towards Jakku, towards the unknown, he’s got a not quite uncomfortable feeling in his gut. 

This is only the beginning. 

 

II.

 

He’s a pilot - he thinks in split second evasions, in close calls. Near misses are a fact of life, even if he only ever seems to be able to look at them peripherally. To confront them directly, he thinks, may not be in the best interest of his mental health. 

In the wake of Finn, however, he comes to dwell on them - Poe wonders if it has something to do with the fact he doesn’t know if the man is alive or dead. Jakku has separated them; which is an inconvenience, yes, but it shouldn’t be keeping him awake at night. _What if_ is not a question that should permeate him at all, and especially not over a man he’s only ever exchanged a few shouted, adrenaline-laced words with. 

The Resistance, however, doesn’t stop moving just because he can’t get his shit together. He knows this, and it’s comforting; if he didn’t find a strange satisfaction in the perpetual motion of attack and counterattack, he wouldn’t have steered himself in the direction of the Resistance on that night in his twelfth year when his mother placed him behind the controls of a short range cargo ship and told him to get _far, far away from all this._

He’s thinking about that night a little too hard, head still halfway in the cockpit, when something crashes into his shin. 

It’s BB-8, beeping with frantic, bubbling happiness at him, but all Poe hears in the stream of droid is _Finn is alive and he’s wearing your jacket._

Poe is running, his thoughts three steps behind him. 

The crash into each other for one long instant, and he’s so _so_ close to crashing their lips together also. Dangerously close. There seems to a pattern shaping up. 

He might be a little bit fucked. 

 

III.

 

It sounds like an excuse when he tells BB-8 about it later, but it really is just an act of impulse. A near miss that’s a little less of a miss than he’d like to admit. 

In the wake of the triumphant Starkiller operation, he doesn’t celebrate. He camps out, rather pathetically, in medbay, with a man who really can’t appreciate his witty repartee in his current state. The nurses get tired of him just sitting there in sullen anticipation; they put him to work. 

And so it comes to pass that Poe Dameron, hero pilot of the glorious Resistance, vacuums the sagging floor tiles and fluffs tired pillows in between stretches of just watching Finn sleep. He waits.

On a Tuesday morning he’s hunched over in a plastic chair, meticulously patching an off-white bedsheet with an ancient needle and thread, when a voice asks, “What are you doing?”

Things get a little blurry after that. He chokes, a little, in relief, and then he’s on his feet and their hands are linked and his mouth is crashing against the edge of Finn’s. 

Afterwards, he takes evasive action. 

There’s a long pause where Poe has just enough courage to keep his gaze focused solely on Finn’s lips. By the time he meets Finn’s eyes, his face has flushed from hairline to collar. Finn doesn’t say anything. Poe isn’t sure any of this is real.

He runs for his life. 

 

IV.

 

Sometimes, Poe thinks, this would all be easier if Finn didn’t look at him like he’s the first sunrise after a forty year night. 

They’re lying in the grass. There’s a bubbling stream somewhere above and to the left. It’s cool but not cold. Finn’s wearing his jacket. This, he supposes, is what they’re all fighting for, if Finn’s sanguine look is anything to go by.

It’s all a little too perfect, Poe thinks, but then again maybe not - he catches a whiff of himself, and he smells like jet fuel. And there’s a long scar across Finn’s shoulder blades and a brand on his breastbone that still marks him as First Order property. 

(The latter of which he’s only recently come across, and run his fingers over, and apologized until Finn had smiled in the darkness at the absurdity of such a thing.)

Still, though, they’re lying in the grass, smiling with beautiful, languid dumbness at each other. And it’s perfect right up until Poe says, “You know, I can’t offer you much.”

“That’s okay.” Finn grins. “I have literally no expectations. I’m not a stormtrooper anymore. Pretty much everything is good.”

“That’s what I’m talking about, though. You have a second life. You shouldn’t waste it on me.” Because he’s thinking back to that first near miss. And every one since. The First Order has been trying to kill him for some time now, and eventually they’ll succeed. Finn may have gotten a second chance, but twenty years in the Resistance have shown Poe that he won’t be allotted the same. 

Finn shifts forward, across the verdant earth, until they’re practically nose to nose. The earth, the sky, human warmth - these should all be firsts for a stormtrooper, yet they all seem to come to Finn as naturally as breathing. Poe tries not to look as awed as he feels. 

“What’s the point of a second life if I can’t spend it with the person who gave it to me?”

He doesn’t wait for Poe’s response. The distance between them closes; Poe’s eyes close and he succumbs in the way he so rarely does. Their lips meet, gentle and warm and insistent. There’s no reason that Finn should be as good at this as he is; he’s better at being human than Poe ever has been. 

“I’m enough?” Poe asks, eyes still half-lidded. 

Finn’s hand finds his, their noses brushing. “You’re everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> lafayette1777.tumblr.com


End file.
